The Question of Now
by SqutternutBosh
Summary: "I suppose you'd like me to explain."  "It would be too obvious for me to point out that you're not dead and probably too stupid for me to ask how you're not." John's life has been put in danger by Sherlock's return. Once again, the pair are on the case.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: When I sat down to write this out of boredom the other day, I didn't expect it to be this long- and this is only the first part out of what I expect will be a three chapter story. I'm a bit out of practice with fanfic writing, and I know there are a lot of these style stories around at the moment, but hopefully mine has an interesting twist and you can enjoy it

…***…

It was Molly who had text him. Good old Molly Hooper, who he hadn't spoken to in a few months and she thought he would like to know that they were up on the roof again. It had been almost three years since John had seen Sherlock take that one decisive step over the edge and apparently now Scotland Yard had taken it upon themselves to be opening up and poking at old case files. What were they hoping to find? They'd scoured the rooftop only hours after the incident; John knew Greg had been up there himself, his guilt driving him to work through the pelting rain, searching for any evidence that could point away from the inevitable conclusion so many had already reached.

All they had found was Moriarty's body, blood pooled in an oddly stagnant puddle about his pale features, the gun in his hand- fired once- and Sherlock's phone, tossed to one side. Last call made to John Watson at 16: 27. Last text sent to an unnamed number- 'Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH'.

John really didn't know what they were looking for anymore, but since he had the day off from work and Molly had been kind enough to inform him, he thought that he would go and take a look into the matter.

He would've dropped anything even if he had been busy.

Maybe they had found something.

It may have been a foolish hope but it drove John on, nevertheless. He knew that he would never stop missing Sherlock, but he had learned to accept that he was gone.

He met Molly in the hospital entrance.

'Okay, Molly?'

'Yeah,' she smiled, 'yeah, I'm feeling really good today.'

Today. Bit of an odd thing to say, John thought. Molly had always been so open.

'Good.'

'Yeah.'

She gestured off in the direction of one of the corridors. John nodded and they began walking briskly, side by side.

'Do you know what they're looking for up- up there?' he asked.

'Just… following a new lead or something. I don't know. They won't tell me.'

'I'm surprised Greg didn't text me.'

'I don't think he knows yet.'

He stopped. Molly paused a step ahead of him.

'It's his case, isn't it? It still would be, I should think.'

Molly bit on her bottom lip. John could see her flexing her fingers nervously outwards at her sides. She didn't answer. He frowned.

'Molly?'

'What? Sorry. I really don't know. I'm probably not supposed to know.'

'Probably not,' he agreed, with a soft smile. 'Thank you for telling me anyway.'

'I… sort of had to, y'know?'

'Right.'

'You can go on ahead without me, if you like. You don't need me there.'

'Okay. Thanks, Molly.'

She bobbed her head slightly and turned swiftly on her heel, rubber hospital floor squeaking beneath her feet, the sole of her trainers leaving a faint, smudged swirl beneath where the ball of her feet had been. He watched her for a moment as she disappeared off down the corridor, lab coat flaring at the back of her knees, ponytail swinging in rhythm with her steps. It must have been hard for her, conducting Sherlock's post-mortem. She had volunteered herself to do it.

John blinked, cleared his throat and carried on his way.

He found it strange that there were no police, no bored and disgruntled flatfoots, guarding the entrance to the stairwell. Anyone could have just gone up and interrupted a vital forensic analysis, stumbled across key evidence. Ignoring this, John headed up them, wondering which officer was leading the investigation. He didn't know many besides Greg, who now consulted him less and less. John had his own life and whatever method he may have learned from Sherlock, his powers of deduction would never be anything close to that of the dead man's.

He reached the top flight, slightly breathless, calves protesting at his sudden desire to be so many storeys up. It had been a long time since he had last been up here, and that was only the once. He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the roof.

The sudden sunlight blinded him momentarily. He cupped his hands about his eyes to shade them and blinked hard a few times, expecting to hear someone query his appearance at a crime scene. He lowered his arm. There was no one there.

Well, there was one person.

'My god.'

'John.'

'Oh my god.'

'_John_.'

The figure stepped closer. Even lit from behind, his face in shadow, John knew who it was. It was like he hadn't changed.

'Are you… Are you _real?_'

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. 'You always did have a flair for asking the most obvious questions, John.'

'Yeah, and you always had a flair for the dramatic,' John fired back straight away. 'The _roof_, seriously?'

Sherlock grinned wickedly. It was so familiar.

John didn't know how he felt about that. He leaned as if about to take a step forward but then thought better of it. He was feeling a bit light-headed and it had nothing to do with the height. He took a breath, opened his mouth to say something. Thought better of it and shut it again, teeth coming together with a dull clang. He ground them against one another.

'I suppose you'd like me to explain.'

'It would be too obvious for me to point out that you're not dead and probably too stupid for me to ask how you're not.'

'It wouldn't be too stupid, John. I intended for you to think that I had jumped, that I had died.'

A beat. 'I did.'

'You had no reason to believe otherwise.'

'No.'

Silence for a moment and then John continues,

'I didn't believe you. When you said you were a fake. I know you're not.'

'Not as stupid as the rest of them then.'

'I have my good days.'

Sherlock shifted and looked away for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to the ledge where he had faked his own death. John followed his line of sight.

'Go on then.'

'Excuse me?'

'Tell me. Tell me how you, the great Sherlock Holmes, have returned, _apparently_, from the dead.' That had come out sounding more angry than John had intended it. 'I can see you're dying to show off. Well, maybe not _dying_.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

'You're angry,' he observed.

There was no point in lying. 'I don't want to be. I can't help it.'

'Understandable.'

'Hmpf.'

'You've spent more time thinking me to be dead than you spent actually being my… friend.'

'That's. I still,' he cleared his throat. 'I still missed you.'

'Then why are you angry?'

'Because I never wanted you to be dead!'

It felt to John as if all of London encircling Bart's would hear his hissed admission. The words kept coming anyway.

'Do you know what it's like, Sherlock, do you know what it's like to see someone you- to see a friend do something like that? You jumped and it felt like nothing I could have said or done would have stopped you. It felt like you should never have jumped in the first place. I saw it though, with my own eyes and-,' he had to stop to take a breath, to look away from Sherlock's penetrating gaze. It was the face he made when he was trying desperately to understand the sentimental inner workings of a lesser mind. The softening of his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely clueless. 'I mourned you, Sherlock. For a long time.'

Sherlock strode further out onto the roof, coming to a halt near the centre. John followed but still kept his distance. The taller man crouched, running his elegant hands along the cement. He looked up at John.

'This is where Moriarty shot himself. There's a scuff here where the gun made contact with the floor when the body fell. And here,' he gestured a wide circle in front of himself, 'is where his blood spread from the head wound. You can clear blood up but the traces of it will never fully wash away, not if you know where to look for them.'

He rubbed his hands together, then placed them on his knees and pushed himself back up to his full height. John was reminded once again of the height difference. He had almost forgotten how short Sherlock could make him feel.

'Why did you do it then?' he asked. 'Moriarty was already dead, suicide, so why did you have to do it too?'

'He wasn't working alone, you know that, John. Moriarty was the spider at the centre of a web and although the spider was gone it didn't mean that the web could not support itself. That someone else could take the chance to be the spider spinning it all.'

John nodded. 'You wanted to take out his accomplices?'

'Yes. Moriarty wanted me to kill myself to finish his story. I had expected that much, it's why I arranged to meet him here on my own terms where I could manipulate the variables just as much as he believed himself to be doing so. I had made arrangements in favour of my survival should it come down to my having to jump.'

'Which you did.'

'I did. What you saw wasn't a lie, John, I really did jump. Moriarty may have been dead, however… He had set up the circumstances so that if three of his accomplices did not see me jump, they would shoot and kill three people.' He held up three long, white fingers. 'Mrs Hudson.' One down. 'Lestrade.' A second folded. 'You.' His hand now formed a fist. He let it fall to his side.

John took a moment to process this information. He took the few steps needed to look over the edge of the building as he had done the three years ago he had been up there. It didn't feel too high, not compared to so many of the buildings around them but the pavement looked very definitely solid. He toed the wall and turned back to Sherlock.

'You had to do it then.'

It wasn't a question. Sherlock nodded anyway.

'Lucky for clever old you you'd seen it coming.'

'I jumped, making sure that you would see me doing so but not so that you could see my body make impact.'

'You kept asking me to stay where I was. With that building there,' John pointed, 'blocking my line of vision.'

'Yes. And I timed it. I saw the cyclist coming, I knew that you would collide with him, so that was my moment. I jumped, propelling myself forward, knowing that you wouldn't see me land on top of the open laundry lorry which I have observed, from years spent in the labs, making collections outside Bart's at half past four every day. I landed there and was quick to jump out again onto the street. Using some blood I had swiped from the lab and some meditative Buddhist techniques I have researched, I was able to give myself the appearance of being all but dead.'

'That's.' John was speechless for a moment, his sentence left hanging.

'Yes.' Oh, there was the smugness.

'That's ridiculous,' he stated bluntly. 'You- you jammy _bastard_. A laundry collection?' John laughed incredulously.

'Yes,' and now he sounded almost hurt, slighted by John's reaction.

'It's a bit Scooby Do, isn't it? All a bit naff for that great big brain of yours.'

'It worked, didn't it?' Sherlock drew himself up into his coat defensively.

'I can't believe I've been mourning a man who threw himself into other people's dirty washing.'

'I did it to save you!'

'Oh, I'm sorry, am I being selfish now?'

John's scathing retort cut them both back a bit.

'I'm sorry,' John said shortly. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, feeling the bone, feeling tired. 'Who was your accomplice? You can't have managed all of this on your own. Was it Mycroft?'

Sherlock exhaled sardonically, rolling his eyes. '_No_,' he answered pointedly. 'It was Molly.'

'Molly? Molly Hooper?'

'Yes. Molly is so often overlooked. I knew I could trust her.'

'Of course. And that's why she text me today. She knew you were back. That you were never really gone.'

'In short, yes.'

John barked out a laugh. 'Oh, I have missed you Sherlock. I really have.' He grinned, eyes wild and exhilarated as he used to look during the height of a case. They were now standing closer to one another, falling back into old gestures and the slightly crowded personal space dynamic of two people who lived together.

'I must admit to having missed your company too, John.'

'Ha, I always knew you would miss me if I went away for long enough. You'd notice that you were talking to thin air most of the time.'

'I did, it seems. I missed having you there. Sentimentality.'

'Sentimentality,' John agreed.

Sherlock seemed to be looking at John properly now, really taking him in with his perfectly balanced reasoning mind working at its usual hyper speed fashion. John let it happen.

'You've put on weight,' Sherlock observed.

'Is that really the first thing you've noticed? Thanks, I must be fatter than I thought.'

'No, not fat, John, only a few pounds. And I never notice anything _first_, everything is causal, I observe it as a whole. I know that your hair has grown out longer than you used to have it when we lived together, that your grey patch is spreading-,'

'-hey-,'

'- that you're wearing new shoes that aren't quite worn in yet because they're pinching at your toes and you keep grimacing, though I doubt you're aware of it. I know that you're back working in a doctor's surgery as I can see the knot of a tie in the open portion of your jacket and you would never wear a tie otherwise, unless you're going to another court case, which I doubt. I see from the crumbs on your trousers that you had toast for breakfast, that you weren't alone at breakfast, that you were with a woman, a brunette and that she kissed you on the cheek, leaving a faint lipstick smear, before you left.'

'True, yes.'

'It's not a platonic relationship either, this woman who kisses you on the cheek. It's a romantic one, a serious one at that.'

John chuckled knowingly. It was such a thrill to hear Sherlock at work again.

'What makes you say that?' he encouraged.

'I can see the faint outline in your jacket pocket- your favourite jacket, you've been wearing it nearly five years, time for a change perhaps-,'

'_You're_ still wearing the same coat.'

'- I've been rather too pre-occupied to consider my fashion faux pas at this time, John. I can see, however, from the outline in your jacket pocket that you are carrying a small box around with you, approximately two inches long and two inches wide. You've been carrying it around in there for quite some time for it to form such an impression on the cut of your coat, so it's something important you need to keep with you. You're scared of losing it, but equally scared of… using it. A ring box.'

'… Yes, alright.'

'An engagement ring, ergo a serious romantic relationship.'

'Yes. Her name is Mary, she was the lead counsellor at Harry's AA group.'

Sherlock did not comment. John had so many more things he could have told Sherlock about the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, but he knew that this would not hold his attention. Not until he had at least met her and judged her for himself. John scratched at his ear.

'I haven't, uh, figured the rest out yet. The proposal.'

'You're getting engaged.'

'Yes. Well, if she says yes.'

'I imagine she will. It's suitably predictable.'

'Most people would just say congratulations.'

'You haven't done anything worthy of my congratulatory wishes yet.'

'_Yet._'

'When you have done-,'

'You will?'

'I believe it will be expected, yes.'

'Thanks.'

'I will mean it.'

'It's a start I suppose.'

'I think I'm out of practice. I haven't had you there to tell me when I'm being _not good_.'

'Your studies in that area were always ongoing, yes.'

'Yes.'

They found themselves side by side now, gazing out over the low-lying sprawl of the east end.

'Why are you back, Sherlock?' John finally asked the question he had been pondering since discovering that his friend was well and truly alive. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that information was still processing, confusing the disordered pathways of his synapses. 'Why now?'

'Aren't you going ask me where I've been?'

John's lips twisted into a smirk. 'That's the obvious question, Sherlock. I'm sure we'll get to it. It's been three years though, no matter where you might have been or what you've been doing, with me thinking you were dead, so why have you suddenly walked back into my life? Why this bloody rooftop? If you just wanted to prove that you were alive you could have done that at any time, I'm sure there have been plenty of opportunities. But no, you've turned up _now_,' He glanced sidelong at his old flatmate, who was, in turn, busy gauging the probability that some member of the public would see them standing on the edge of a building and call for help lest they decide to jump. No one had noticed him the first time, why would they notice now?

'Sherlock,' John started. 'What's wrong?'

'It all ties in together, don't you see? Where I've been, where I am now, where I'm going.' He hops up onto the lip of the wall. He can see the spot where John stood, hand to one ear, as he left him his note. 'It was convenient to me to give the appearance of being dead, not only to preserve your life but also to give myself an advantage over Moriarty's cohorts. They weren't expecting me to able to outsmart them from beyond the grave, even I couldn't do that.'

'Only you bloody could.'

'_Yes_,' Sherlock answered with some degree of delight. 'I had several of them investigated and pointed in Mycroft's direction within a year of my fall. I suppose my brother was somewhat suspicious. I was still using his bank account, after all. He let me carry on, however, I'm loathe to say it but he is intellectually gifted enough to have been able to interpret my plans.'

'He never said anything to me.'

'It would have interfered, John. It was for the best.'

John shrugged. 'One day, the pair of you will let me decide that I know what is best for me.'

'Not quite yet though,' Sherlock wasn't teasing him, there was something serious in his tone.

'Sherlock?'

'You asked me why now. _Why now_. It was the right question, John.'

'You're starting to scare me a bit.'

'You should be scared. There's a reason I've come to speak to you now, there's a reason I chose this rooftop.'

'Just get over yourself and tell me straight for once, would you?'

'Colonel Sebastian Moran was, for all the more conventional intents and purposes, Jim Moriarty's right-hand man. He has continued to evade me over the past three years, but now he has made his plans rather more… overt. It is no secret to me that he wants me to die, he wants to kill me and finish what his boss started. I'm too clever for him, I can avoid him equally as well as he can stalk the shadows from me. You though, John, you can't. You have a presence- family, friends, a partner, patients.'

'What are you trying to say?'

'He's using you to draw me out.'

'I'm sorry, what?'

'He's targeting you, knowing that you are one of the very few people I would resurrect my supposedly dead identity for.'

'He wants to kill me so that he can kill you?'

'It's a dangerous game.'

John's jaw was set, his eyes hard and blazing.

'It's not one he's going to win.'


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock did not look like he belonged at John's kitchen table. His long legs stretched nearly as far as the piece of furniture itself, and he resolutely refused to remove his hands from his coat pockets, collar up as usual, shadowing his gaunt cheeks.

'It's not cold, you know,' John remarked. Sherlock responded by sliding deeper into the folds of his coat, like a child with a safety blanket. He swung his right leg over his left knee as John set a mug of tea down on the table in front of him.

'Who else knows you're...' John searched for a better word than that which he was thinking of but found none, '... back?'

'Just you. Molly knows I have made my presence known to you. Oh, and I suppose Mycroft must know by now.'

'Not Mrs Hudson?'

'Not yet.'

'Lestrade?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'He blamed himself for a long time, Lestrade did. He didn't think it was just about his actions, he's not that self-pitying, but he definitely felt guilty for his part in your suicide. Probably still does when he thinks about it. You should go and see him.'

'Eventually.'

'Because he doubted you?'

John took a sip of his own tea and observed Sherlock over the rim, the knuckles brushing against the warm enamel as he gripped the handle a little too tightly. His friend's face was half in darkness, watery grey winter light spilling from the window behind him.

'No,' Sherlock answered after some deliberation.

John was surprised. 'No?'

'It is easy to doubt the fallibility of something you don't quite understand. It is simpler to settle for an easy explanation, which is what Lestrade, when, in a moment of moronity I thought beyond him, he listened to Anderson and did just that.'

John nodded as he set his mug down.

'I never doubted you. I may not be able to apply them myself but I do understand the workings of your methods.'

'I know you would never doubt me, John.' His lips twitched at the corners mischievously. 'Tell me, did you ever make it to court over your mistreatment of the Chief Superintendent's nose?'

John snorted into his drink, showering his cheeks with hot tea. Sherlock chuckled, deep and theatrical. Even his laugh sounded well-spoken.

'Lestrade had to caution me but they didn't take it higher.' John wiped absent-mindedly at his face with the back of his sleeve. 'The Chief had a great purple bruise for weeks though.'

'Marvellous. You always did have a strong right hook.'

'As you know from experience.'

'Indeed.'

Sherlock pushed his tea aside and took to examining some papers which had been stacked hurriedly and haphazardly at the end of the table.

'These are Mary's,' he stated.

'Yes. She's conducting some research into new psychological treatment areas.'

'An academic?'

'When she has time. Mostly a practitioner.'

'I can see from her handwriting that she has a higher than average intelligence.'

John's eyes widened at this- what could be considered- compliment. Sherlock was actually making an effort.

'Her handwriting leans to the right- right handed then,' he continued, 'because she is writing quickly. She uses polysyllabic words and complex sentences, employing correct grammar and- no offence, John- a rather more deft turn of phrase than you used to use in your blogs. She is capable of thinking eloquently at speed. A fluid thought process and proficient articulation therefore suggests an intellect in excess of the average.'

'She is pretty smart,' John said proudly.

'The average, however, isn't exactly high.'

'Aaand there we go. I knew that couldn't last.'

'We also to have hope that she is not boring like the last one.'

'Did I mention that it was an addiction study? Maybe she could run some tests on_ you_ for once,' John retorted.

Sherlock merely quirked his eyebrows in response, before he stood with a sudden burst of energy and began rifling through John's cupboards, slamming the doors shut with unnecessary force.

'Oh, sure, help yourself,' John muttered, then, so that Sherlock could hear, 'You're not going to find any body parts in there. No fingers, no toes, no _bloody_ heads.'

'Hmm?' Sherlock said distractedly. At least he seemed aware that John had opened his mouth, which was something of a change.

'What are you _doing_?' John hissed as Sherlock folded to his knees and threw the cupboard under the sink open. He pulled a pencil torch out of his inside coat pocket.

'It has occurred to me that,' he stuck his head fully into the space, outstretched, torch-bearing arm first, and the continuation of his words echoed dully off bottles of Mr Muscle and scrumpled cloths, 'you could be bugged.' He withdrew from the cupboard. With the height difference enabling John to look down on Sherlock, he noticed that his curls seemed lighter in colour than he remembered, as if Sherlock had been somewhere with a lot of sun. Possible. 'You have the beginnings of mould under there.'

'I know, I can't seem to get rid of it.'

'I could make a formula for that.'

'Please, god, _no_.'

'You never have enough faith in my scientific abilities, John.'

'No, I don't have faith in the _aftermath _of your scientific abilities.'

Sherlock was on his feet again now, standing at a bookshelf which contained an array of thick medical tomes, books on psychological theory and an extensive collection of unused, wishful-thinking cookbooks. He pulled books out at speed, shoving them back in roughly when he didn't discover anything.

'You think me and Mary have been bugged?'

'As she lives here too, going upon the many signs about this house that I have observed, then yes, you and Mary have been bugged. It's mostly about you though.'

Another hardback book fell with a thud against the back of the shelf.

'Moran?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, reaching behind a copy of Jamie Oliver's latest culinary suggestions. His hand reappeared, small black microphone encased in his fist, as if it would try to wriggle and escape if he loosened his grip. 'Except this here is of Mycroft's making. He's a bit of a brand snob when it comes to these things.' He slid the book back into place. 'Even he must know that you always intend to cook great things but never get around to it.' He snapped the device in two with his delicate fingers.

'Mycroft is still bugging me? Bloody hell, I thought he'd leave me alone after I left Baker Street.'

'My brother clearly knew that I would be making my way here, when I was finished being dead. You should probably get better security in your house, John.'

'No shit, Sherlock. How long do you think that had been there?'

Sherlock bent to examine the shelf at close range, nose grazing the wood. 'Judging by the dust, not too long. Perhaps a week at most.'

'He might have heard some interesting things. The other night...' John's grin was bordering on that of a leer.

Sherlock's eyes widened. 'I have no need of the details.'

'Doesn't matter, you could always just borrow the recoding from your brother.' He winced. 'Actually, please don't.'

Sherlock returned to his seat and took a deep, restorative draught from his mug. 'I can assure you that I have no desire to. This is cold.'

'I know it doesn't seem like a big deal to you, but I am actually quite annoyed that Mycroft has been bugging me, Sherlock. This is _my home_.'

'He's easily dealt with.'

'Would you?'

Sherlock sighed melodramatically. 'If I must.'

'Thank you.' John leant back in his chair. 'You don't think Moran has the place tapped too?'

'Not at this point in time.'

'Good.' He folded his arms across his chest, rubbing one head thoughtfully under his chin. If it was possible, Sherlock looked skinnier, his medical eye couldn't help but notice the leanness of his face, the tight sinews in his hands. Sherlock had never been very good at remembering to eat without anybody making him do so. He watched the other man continue to sip at his cold tea.

'Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Do you have a plan?'

'To deal with Moran?'

'Now that he's targeting both of us it would be nice if he was gone.'

Sherlock set the mug down. 'I was considering playing him at his own game.'

'And that's what?'

'He is using you to draw me out, so-,'

'_You_ want to use me to draw him out?' John interrupted.

'Precisely.'

John groaned and put his head in his hands. 'You've only been back five minutes and I'm already playing your damsel in distress again.'

'You're not _always _my damsel in distress.'

'You're right- sometimes you are. Jefferson Hope. Irene Adler. And you'd look so much more pretty than me in a long medieval dress. I'm thinking in purple.'

'Purple at that time would have been for royalty only, John.'

'Is that why you like to wear purple shirts so much? To lord it over us?'

'Purple is practical. A deep or plum purple is less likely to show up blood stains than many other colours.'

'You've _tested _that theory, haven't you?'

'Yes. Your jumpers proved quite robust. Your fondness for checked shirts, however...'

'You put blood on my clothes?'

'I had Mrs Hudson wash them afterwards.'

'That poor woman.'

'She didn't mind. You never noticed, either.'

John grumbled.

'It is your turn to be damsel in distress, John.'

'Oh alright.'

'Excellent. It's going to take me a bit longer to format the rest of the situation, to get Moran where we want him.'

'What's this guy like, this Moran?'

'Disgraced soldier, Iraq, Afghanistan. Quick on the trigger finger, notorious with a sniper, particularly over an increasingly long range.'

'As the bait, you're not inspiring much hope in me here.'

'It will be a simple enough undertaking. He's good at hiding but, as a man with recorded gambling debts reaching into the five figures, he is not one who is familiar with avoiding temptation.'

'You'll be able to come back though, when he's gone. Tell people you're not actually dead. You can go to the papers and prove them wrong, claim back your reputation?'

'We'll see.'

Sherlock's non-committal attitude frustrated John. He clenched his fists and dug his knuckles into the tabletop. 'That's why I'm doing this, Sherlock. Not for me, for you. I am actually going to be putting my life at stake here so that you can get yours back. You have to come back, you have to _stay _back. That's the deal, right? Don't... don't make me waste my time here. I haven't got the energy for half a miracle.'

Sherlock brushed the lapel of his coat, straightened it out. He remembered a distant graveyard and a cold, unforgiving slab of black marble bearing his name in gold lettering. A lone figure at the grave. 'I appreciate that. It's all about timing.'

'Timing.'

'Yes.'

John glanced over to the clock on the wall. Almost six.

'Mary will be home soon.'

'I should leave.'

'You don't have to.'

John fixed Sherlock with a stare. It didn't take long for him to look away.

'She helped me stop counting,' John said slowly. He stirred his teaspoon idly around his near-empty mug, sending dregs spinning in tea leaf whirlpools. 'I didn't realise it, but when you died I kept count of how many days you had been gone. It wasn't intentional, just one of those things your brain does sort of unconsciously; when you remember the first day, you remember the second, you know when it's the third... I was a mess for a hundred and fifty two days. I didn't know what to do with myself anymore, aside from the fact that I missed you. On the one hundred and fifty third day, I met Mary. By two hundred, I had stopped counting.'

The skies outside had darkened as the sun set. The low glow of the sinking star cast Sherlock's shadow long across John.

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said after a stretch of silence. 'I really am sorry. And you know I don't say that as readily as anyone else.'

John ran his hand across his eyes, knowing that Sherlock would never fail to notice the faint glistening there, even in his dimly lit London kitchen.

'No, you don't, you dick.'

A pause.

'That was... quite called for.'

'It generally is whenever you open your mouth.'

A key clicked in the door down the hallway as they both laughed. A bag dropped on a wooden stand, home to a phone, a notepad and a dish of change. They key settled in with a clink against the coppers. Footsteps padded down worn carpet, turning to clipped tones as heels hit and then stopped on the wood-effect lino of the kitchen. The light flicked on.

'Why are you sitting in the dark?'


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just a bit of an interim chapter, plot will properly kick off in the next instalment. Hope you like!

…*…

To her credit, Mary did not make a big fuss at Sherlock being alive when John introduced him. She seemed to realise that that particular ground had already been trodden in the past few hours and made the split-second decision to accept the situation and go on with it. John has told her enough of his infamous friend Sherlock Holmes to know that he might just be vain enough to fake his own death, whatever reasons he may have had. Instead, she pulled a chair out from under the table and drew it over so that she could sit close to John. She took his hand and ran her thumb over his.

'Sherlock Holmes,' she started. 'I've heard a lot about you. _A lot_.'

John looked between the two, his old friend and the woman he hopes to marry. Mary was trying her best to figure Sherlock out where Sherlock had probably already deduced her.

'All good things?' Sherlock asked.

'Unusual things,' Mary smiled. 'Hard to classify as good or bad. That is a question of morality.'

'I may not be best informed in matters of morality, besides those observed by the British justice system. John was my teacher in that area.'

'I'm a soldier and a doctor,' John added. 'If anything, my morals are rather muddled.'

Mary squeezed his hand. 'You are a good man,' she said. 'Except for when you leave the toilet seat up.'

'And there are the grey shades of the murky morality issue reflected right there. Bathroom etiquette,' John laughed. 'No one said it was black or white.'

'But it is up or down. And I prefer down,' she chided. Sherlock was still staring intently at her, suspiciously quiet. John glanced at Mary, silently questioning her determined acceptance of what was unfolding. She knew what losing Sherlock had done to him. Mary gave him a firm nod. They would talk about this later. For now, she would get to know Sherlock. She assumed he would be a big part of their lives from now on.

'Go on then,' she said, addressing the man who was all but a stranger to her, except in John's wild stories of criminal chases and severed heads stored in fridges.

'Excuse me?'

'Deduce me. John has told me so much about your amazing ability to read people, let's see it then.'

'Don't encourage him.'

'I want to see it for myself.'

'Fine, fine,' John threw his hands up and sat back to watch the show, 'don't say I didn't warn you.'

Sherlock rested his elbows on the table and leant forward eagerly. He steepled his fingers and flexed them.

'Do you need me to stand?' Mary asked.

'No, no, I saw you standing when you walked in. That is enough data to be going on.'

'Tell me then. Who am I?'

'Your name is Mary Morstan, that much I can see from the ID badge about your neck which also tells me that you work for the psychology department at Saint George's Medical Centre, which I know to be three tube stops away from this street, likely why you bought this flat- the feminine décor and wearing of certain surfaces prove that you bought this flat new and have broken it in with your own routine, until John moved in and started making use of the chair opposite to your favoured position. You were late for work this morning as the kink in your hair shows signs of being tied up whilst still wet and you have a few small white specks of toothpaste- spearmint, probably a tooth whitening variety- on the left side your blouse from where you brushed with the wrong hand, your left hand, as you rushed about trying to get ready. The faint bags under your eyes show signs of a late night and therefore the late morning. John, being the predictable male that he is, may want me to think the late night was due to carnal reasons but I see that it wasn't. You have rubbed your neck three times since you walked in here, massaging the base and you are slouching in your chair for support. This is down to tiredness and the fact that you were reading in bed late last night, propped up uncomfortably by pillows and a mattress with not quite enough lumbar support. The slight pinch marks either side of your nose show me that you frequently wear glasses- you're long-sighted, so you mostly use them to read but you know that soon you may have to wear them more constantly as the lines in your forehead suggest consistent squinting, most often associated with straining of the eyes. Your musical note earrings and short finger nails- neatly painted, you wish you could grow them longer- suggest that you play an instrument, I'm guessing the piano as your fingertips are not hardened by the repeated pressure of strings as associated with a violin or a guitar. Your accent overall suggests Kent, but some of your intonations speak of Irish relatives, most likely a parent as they would have a higher impact on your speaking ability. How am I doing?'

Mary laughed and shoved John playfully. 'I believe you now. Not that I didn't before, I just thought you were maybe exaggerating a bit.'

'John does have a tendency to sensationalise,' Sherlock remarked dryly.

'Let's all pick on John, shall we?' John grumbled. 'He's so amazed by the simplest things.'

'Oh, be quiet,' she planted a kiss on his shoulder. 'I understand now. That truly was remarkable.'

'I know.'

'And now I understand the smugness.'

'There is no possible way I could have exaggerated that.'

'He has already called me a dick and a bastard today,' Sherlock pointed out, sampling the words distastefully in his mouth.

'That's no way to treat an old friend, John,' Mary admonished. 'Particularly a dead one.'

'Yes, John. Beware of hurting the feelings of the dead man.'

'I'm sorry, I'm not used to treading on eggshells around my sociopath flatmate.'

Sherlock grinned. '_High-functioning _sociopath.'

'Fine.' John twisted his wrist and checked his watch. 'I have to go for my shift soon. Oh- and that's one thing you did get wrong, Sherlock, I've just been waiting to rub it in.'

'I got something wrong?'

'I don't work at a doctor's surgery, I work in-,'

'The Emergency Room, of course. Violence and trauma, you love the adrenalin buzz. Excuse my momentary slip.'

John's face fell. 'I was hoping to have more fun with that.'

'Find something I've got really wrong then. It may prove difficult.'

John left the kitchen to go and freshen up before work, leaving Sherlock alone with Mary.

'John doesn't like therapists,' he said as soon as the other man was out of earshot.

'I'm not a therapist. I do a bit of counselling, but mostly academic research. Also, I wouldn't say that John doesn't like therapists, otherwise he wouldn't have used one at all, he's stubborn like that. If anything, he didn't like that he felt that his therapist was often wrong about him.'

'She was.'

'Are you trying not to like me, Sherlock?'

'No. I am trying to comprehend why John likes you.'

'Well, that was certainly honest of you.'

'I don't waste my breath sparing people's feelings.'

'Apparently not. Otherwise you may have spared a lot of people a lot of hurt by not pretending to be dead for years.'

Sherlock refused to look away from Mary and she, in turn, met his intense gaze.

'I believe I am starting to see why he likes you.'

'Yeah?'

'Physically, you are what I have in the past observed to be John's type. He has a preference for brunettes, which is your natural hair colour although your roots bear the scars of some experimentation with blonde. Don't go blonde again, I imagine it didn't suit you before and it won't suit you now. You are intelligent, something John admires and seeks in most of his acquaintances. You are strong-willed and not intimidated by my unexpected presence. You are pragmatic, as demonstrated in your acceptance of my appearance and, quite frankly, your choice of footwear.'

'I don't like to wear heels on the Tube.'

'You are protective of John but equally protected by him. You relax when in physical contact with him, he does the same. You have proven to have a sense of humour, teasing and sarcastic, a tone John himself uses- this also says that you have a higher chance of being able to hold a stimulating conversation, to escape the monotonous rigmarole of boring sentences and stupid questions. You have a sharp and analytical mind as proven by your profession. You are attempting to turn it on me now, an action I would recommend you discontinue with, you cannot possibly hope to keep up with me.'

'Am I not allowed to at least try?'

'You will only fail.'

The only sounds were the clock ticking steadily on the wall and John's footsteps above their heads.

'I suppose I admire you for trying,' Sherlock said. 'That, I suppose, is another reason why John likes you.'

'Do _you _like me?'

He did not have time to answer before John re-entered, shrugging on a blazer. He shot the sleeves and adjusted the cuffs.

'Everyone getting on in here?' Concern lilted in the lightness of his tone.

'I'm not convinced Sherlock gets on with anyone,' Mary answered.

'_Sherlock_,' John cautioned.

Mary pushed herself to her feet. 'It's not him, John. We're getting on just fine. I've been testing him. 'Getting on' just isn't quite the phrase I would use.'

'If he told you anything you didn't want to hear, then I did tell you so.'

'You did.' She kissed John on the cheek. 'You should be going or you'll be late. The Tube was packed.'

'I'll leave with you, John. I have plans to be making for us,' Sherlock announced, also rising to his feet.

'Plans?' Mary enquired.

'It's nothing,' John replied quickly. 'Nothing to be worried about.'

'I wasn't worried until you said I shouldn't be.'

'It's all fine. I'll be back at about half 5, I'll try not to wake you.'

'Don't trip up the stairs again then. I thought we were being robbed.'

'Sorry.' He patted his pockets, checking for his keys and phone. 'Right, better be off then. Sherlock?'

John gave Mary one last peck on the lips before leading Sherlock down the hallway and out into the chill night air.

'Well?' he asked.

Sherlock didn't need to be the genius he was to know what John was curious about.

'I have gathered enough intelligence to tell you that I prefer her over your previous conquests.'

John tilted his head back and looked up at the hazy stars for a moment, struggling to see their silver glow through thick layers of London smog and amber light pollution. They began walking.

'She is safe though? If I'm being targeted over you then will she be targeted to get at me?'

Sherlock sighed. 'I can't make any promises, John. It is enough for me that I am here putting your life in danger again.'

'Still only got the emotional ability to care for one person at a time?'

'That's not true. It just takes… effort.'

'I know. Make that effort for me though, will you? I love her and you…'

'I am your friend, John, and you are mine. Of course I will do what I can. Anything.'

'I trust you.'

'I probably don't deserve that.'

'You don't, but, god help me, I do.'

'Then that is all I need. Now, I have to disappear before we are properly seen together. I will be in touch soon.'

'You'd better be.'

Sherlock picked up his speed. Just before he went to turn in the opposite direction to his friend, he called over to him,

'I do like her, John, but you can't tell her I said that.'


	4. Chapter 4

'Why are we meeting here?' John moaned as soon as he saw Sherlock. 'You know I hate the supermarket.'

'It's public,' Sherlock replied, eyes darting about his chosen meeting place, scouting out the exits and the staff and the bustling people. 'Moran almost definitely knows that I have made myself known to you by now, it's just a matter of staying hidden in crowds.'

'Right. Is he here now? Sherlock?'

Sherlock was staring past John, out through the glass doors.

'You were followed.'

'Followed?' John twisted to look over his own shoulder. A harried passer-by hurried past, bumping shoulders with him. He pouted inadvertently in annoyance. 'To Tesco?'

'I thought that maybe if you looked to be going about your normal routine then they would leave you alone. Hence, the supermarket.'

'Is it Moran?'

'I doubt it. One of his lackeys. He's not looking to kill either of us with all of these people around, he's just keeping tabs on our whereabouts. Get a basket.'

'What?'

'Get a basket. We can't just stand in the entrance all day we have to create some semblance of normality. I'll talk and you can shop.'

John returned a few seconds later, basket in hand, grumbling as yet more people knocked into him. 'I _really _hate the supermarket.'

'Sacrifices have to be made, John. Let's go. You need milk, I presume? You always seem to need milk. We'll start there.'

John walked after Sherlock obediently, knowing that at no point would he offer to carry the basket and would instead choose to add whatever items might take his fancy, leaving John to pay for it all at the end.

'Who do you think followed me?' he asked, scanning the various milks, which he did, in fact, need. It was written on the palm of his hand but he wasn't sure whether Sherlock had been able to see that or if he had just lived with John long enough to understand his tea-drinking habit and constant, unintentional drowning of cereal.

'Almost certainly a man, Moran is really quite sexist and would never employ a woman. He has friends in many dark places, including other soldiers who were dismissed from the army on charges of violence. The sort who are looking for mindless bloodshed. It is likely he had one of these men with their military training follow you. He wouldn't have looked out of the ordinary, probably wearing a suit, blending in with the London scene. I wouldn't have expected you to notice.'

'Is he still with us now?'

'Most likely. Oh, no, John, just because it says it's fat-free doesn't mean it is necessarily any better for you.'

John's hand paused, mid-reach. 'It's not up to you what I put on my toast,' he said, picking up the foil slab and dropping it into the basket.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'If you're worried about cholesterol…'

'I am not. I have perfectly healthy cholesterol levels for a man of my age and also, I'm a doctor, for god's sake, I am aware of what constitutes a balanced diet. More so than you, in any case.'

'Fine, fine. I will have to put my foot down if you reach for any sugared products, however. What with your high blood pressure and that short temper of yours.'

'_You're _not good for my temper, should I cut you out of my diet?'

Sherlock gripped John's shoulder. 'Careful, John. I want you around a while longer yet.'

'This is you showing you care then.' John glanced sidelong at the hand on his shoulder with mild concern. It was not often Sherlock reached out and initiated any physical contact unless it involved brushing someone out of his way.

'I am saving you from yourself. You subsided on take-aways and fry-ups from that horrendously greasy Speedy's for too long.'

'Better than coffee and nicotine patches,' John said tersely. Sherlock let go of his shoulder- the right one, he was always careful of John's left- and said nothing. 'Come on, I suppose I'd better get some fruit or something, had I? You can fill me in on your plans.'

John dropped a bag of Royal Galas into his basket, feeling patronised with Sherlock standing just behind him, nodding approvingly.

'Right, there you go, I'm not just pumping lard into my veins, not that you seemed to care or notice before.' He added a bunch of bananas to the pile. 'Can we get on with what we really came here for now?'

He started walking, heading for the bakery aisle, Sherlock at his heels for once.

'We know now that we _are _being followed,' Sherlock mused, 'which is a good thing, Moran is good at tailing in solitude, but now that he has others working for him? Someone is bound to make a mistake or leave enough evidence for us to discover more about Moran's whereabouts.'

'We're just going to let them keep following me? I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that.'

'They're not going to harm you, John, not yet.'

'Yet? That's promising.'

'You understand how it can be in my life.'

'It was my life for a time too.'

'Of course. Don't get brown bread, I really rather dislike it.'

'Well, you don't live with me anymore so you don't have to eat it, I do. And Mary likes it. _And _it's healthier than white.'

John considered for a moment what else he needed to buy. He didn't have a list and Mary had done a big food shop two days ago. He settled on wandering up and down the aisles, waiting for inspiration to hit in the form of a buy one get one free offer on digestives or some half price kitchen roll.

'Do you have a plan at all, Sherlock? You seem quite content to just let them trail around after me.'

'I have been observing them in their movements as they have followed you. Not all of the time but for a few hours over the past couple of days.'

'You were following them following me before I even knew you were still living and breathing?'

'I was able to gather considerable data.'

'You were_ able_ to piss me off now that I've heard.'

'I've always been able to do that, John, to a lot of people. You were always just better at not letting it bother you.'

'It bothers me when I find out that what was essentially, to me, _your ghost_, was stalking around after me for days. I'll never know when I'm safe in my own company now with you doing that.'

Oh, the digestives were on buy one get one free. John decided to get four packets.

'Sugar, John,' Sherlock chided.

'Shut up and get on with your genius stuff and I'll get on with my moron stuff, okay?'

'I have some semblance of a plan in mind,' Sherlock continued, suitable chastised for the moment; chastised, in Sherlock terms, meaning bored of the other conversation. 'I am excellent at hiding my presence in public places, I can get lost in a crowd when I need to. You are proving to be all too easy to follow. Moran is aware of your routine- your shift patterns, your trips to the pub, your visits to your sister and Mrs Hudson.'

'How bloody long were you following me?'

'Irrelevant. Moran has a map in his mind of your favoured locations. You broke with that yesterday when you visited Bart's. No doubt he saw us on the rooftop and saw us later go to your home. I planned it that way; I wanted him to know that I had reached out to you. He is aware that I have informed you as to the situation regarding him but likely confused by our apparent inactivity. Perhaps he does not realise that there is no profit in directly pursuing a man so handy with a long-range weapon.'

'True. He could get us wherever we go, if that's the case. If he's as good with a sniper as you say he is he could pick us off at any moment, even with your hiding in plain sight method. I've seen some marksmen in my time, I know the skill that they have and, frankly, it scares me that you're not more concerned about his potential.'

'I know he is not going to shoot me in public because it would only serve to stir an outcry. Killing the famous, fraudulent, _dead _detective Sherlock Holmes in central London, with hundreds of people around? That's more attention drawn to him than he needs.'

'What about me?'

'What about you, John?' Sherlock said dismissively. 'He is using your interactions with me in an attempt to find my whereabouts, to corner me in a quiet place. He is not interested in shooting you.'

'And you're sure of that?'

'I have already told you of this fact several times.'

'So what are we going to do then?'

'We are going to go to Baker Street.'

'Isn't that exactly what- oh. I see.'

'Yes. Let us appear to do what he wants us to do.'

'How is this going to work?'

'We need to make Moran aware of our intention to be at the old address. The rooms are still under my name, as you know, Mycroft held them for me.'

'I did think it was oddly sentimental of him.'

'Practical, I think, would be the term used.'

'Right. So we go to Baker Street..?'

They were in the freezer aisle now. Sherlock reached across bags of frozen chips to open one of the cooler cabinets. He gestured for John to open the one beside him. He did so, face blasted with the icy breath of dozens of boxes of fish fingers.

'Tomorrow, you go to work as normal,' Sherlock said, a halo of frost glowing white behind his head, 'I will text you something inane- you never know who is watching the phone lines- when I know someone to be following you and in earshot. At this point, you will phone me and arrange to meet me at Baker Street, making time and place very clear.' He reached out and placed a box of fish fingers into John's basket. 'We shall meet there at the arranged time. I have made some mental measurements and deduced where we can expect Moran to be if he intends to use his sniper skills to shoot me in the comfort of my own home, quiet and out of the way, where no one would look for the corpse of a corpse.'

'How are we to stop him actually going through with this?'

'Timing and positioning. I know where his mark will be and I will give you a signal. The rest is up to you.'

John stood back and shut the freezer door before Sherlock could add any more fish fingers to his basket. He didn't know what he was going to do with the ones he already had.

'I trust you, John,' Sherlock said.

'I hope this works, Sherlock.'

'If Moran is anything like as predictable as I have so far found him to be then it should work out elegantly.'

'Elegantly? Perfect. Right, come on, I should get some wine for Mary as some sort of apology in advance for all of this.'

He led Sherlock into the central aisle, making his way down the middle, swerving through throngs of people- and, really, shouldn't they be at work or somewhere more important in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon?- to the end of the shop where he knew a wide selection of alcohol to be. He very much felt like he needed some. He deliberated for a moment as to whether to go right or left, white or red, until Sherlock chimed in with his thoughts,

'Get a red.'

'What could possibly have told you that Mary prefers red?'

'The range of bottles you have stored along the back of your kitchen counter, all reds, mostly Italian or Chilean.'

'We could have just as many whites only you wouldn't see them, they'd be in the fridge or somewhere cool.'

'You don't. Mary is a woman in her mid-thirties, John, she prefers the warm subtleties of a red, not the crisp, sharp tones of a white which she used to induct herself into the world of wine drinking. I also know that you would prefer a red, so really, your contesting of my advice is merely obstinate. You just don't like it when I'm right.'

'In that case, I don't like you _all of the time_.'

Swinging the shopping basket onto his other arm, John stalked off down the aisle of reds, eyes sweeping over vineyard names he vaguely recognised and prices he didn't particularly want to pay. He thought he would play it safe and pick up a bottle of one of Mary's favourites.

Sherlock was suddenly at his side as he was reading the back of the bottle, thinking to himself that he would never taste the 'bitter chocolate' or 'infusions of plums and cherries' that the label boasted of. It all tasted of wine to him and if he liked it, and Mary liked it, then that was enough.

'We are being followed again.' Sherlock pretended to be scrutinising the bottle over John's shoulder. 'That man at the end of the aisle, I've seen him follow you before.'

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see a suited man perusing the rosés on the opposite side at the end of the aisle, looking to John, quite unsuspicious. That he was the only other person in the aisle with them was what struck John as odd.

'This is what you want though. You want them to know that you're back in my life and I'm back in yours.'

'Yes. They have not made their presence so clearly known before.'

John placed the bottle on the shelf and picked up another. 'Maybe he's just an idiot? Maybe he's the man who is going to make the mistake we need.'

Sherlock passed behind John and crossed to the opposite shelves. He returned a few seconds later, a different bottle in hand. He offered it out to John.

'He's armed. I have never known one of them to be armed before.'

John took the bottle.

'You said they wouldn't try anything.'

'It would be highly suspect if they did. It wouldn't be a wise move for them to make.'

'That doesn't rule any chance out completely.'

He shook his head and passed the bottle back to Sherlock. He set the basket down next to his feet in anticipation of having to get out quickly.

'He's not very good at maintaining his cover,' Sherlock muttered. 'He is far too inactive not to arouse suspicion.'

'It's like he's waiting for something,' John commented.

Sherlock did a swift three-sixty degree check of their surrounding area, trying to take in as much as possible. He paused stiffly looking several feet above John's head at the top shelves.

'It's a warning,' he said. 'They have been observing you too long, they knew that you would lead us here. They're warning us that they're watching and there's more to come.'

'We already know that!' John went to turn and see what Sherlock was so fixatedly staring at.

'_No,' _he breathed, the command slipping through gritted teeth. 'Don't move, John.' His gaze flickered to see the man who had been tracking them slip out of the aisle. 'Don't move yet. When I say, raise your arms and do your best to cover your head and face.'

'Sherlock, what-,'

'Please, John.'

John's jaw set. 'Alright.'

'Take two steps to your right.'

John did so and Sherlock mirrored him.

'Cover your head, wait ten seconds and run. Don't wait for me.'

'Sherlock,' John said firmly.

'No, John, I will make my own exit. Just get out of here, go home, I will find you later.'

'Okay. When-,'

'Three,' Sherlock started. 'Two.'

John's arms were already tensing, ready to go.

'_One_.'

An explosion above them. Only a small one but that was all that was needed to break the shelving brackets from the wall and send hundreds of bottles cascading down onto them. Sherlock's measurements had cleared them from being completely crushed by the descending apparatus but not cleared them of the fallout.

Thick shards of glass from within the epicentre of the blasts- John guessed there would have had to have been at least three placed at regular intervals, timed to go off simultaneously, to bring the whole thing down- shot out at speed, slicing through the air in vicious slivers. John had counted to three when he felt one tear the skin on his exposed hand, hot and stinging. Another had nicked the top of his ear before he could reach four.

The crashing sound of the fall was tumultuous, harsh and discordant, smashing and shattering all around as if the entire world had cracked down the centre and was splintering away from every angle.

With his face covered, wrapped by his arms, John could not see Sherlock. He felt syrupy pools of wine start to swell at his feet, through his shoes, soaking into the bottom of his trouser legs. More glass whipped at him as he reached seven, the sound of glass breaking lessening. He could hear voices shouting in the distance, an indistinct jumble of panicked words tangled up in one another.

Eight. His jacket definitely had several rips in it. Something had punched into the back of his leg and his knee weakened momentarily. Blood from the cut on his hand matted his hair, dyed it a dark red like that of the wine spreading along the floor, its collective aroma rich and tangy and not at all delicate. It made his eyes water, but that may have been the alcohol fumes rising up.

Nine. Somehow, there was nothing left to fall.

Ten. He lowered his arms. Sherlock was already sprinting away. Glass that had settled on John's shoulder grazed his cheek. Blood was sitting sticky in his left ear from the cut he had sustained to the outer shell.

Glass crunching underfoot, adrenalin pounding like an overwhelmed heartbeat in his head, John ran.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Just a quick thanks to all those who have favourite, alerted and reviewed this story! It's my first foray into Sherlock territory so it's good to know that people like my attempt at capturing this brilliant show. Hope you enjoy this next instalment, more suspense to come!

…*…

His face was all over the front of the London Evening Standard; his and Sherlock's. Believe in Sherlock was trending on Twitter, which hadn't happened since the days following Sherlock's alleged death. The fansites, which had fallen quiet, despite persisting longer in their adoration of Sherlock than the general public, were all of a cybernetic buzz, excited comments passing through forums and chatrooms. 'What does this mean?' they were all asking, 'If he's not dead, then where has he been? How did he do it? Was he telling the truth?'

John was glad for the current reprieve he had from the paparazzi although he knew it wouldn't be long until they were hounding him, blinding him with eager flashbulbs and intrusive questions, like they had done before. All he ever told them was that Sherlock wasn't a fraud. They had left him alone again a few days after Sherlock's death, bored of only ever getting the same answer and never finding out whether Sherlock was good in bed or what make his coat was.

He stared at the grainy CCTV images of himself standing in Tesco, Sherlock by his side until they fled in opposite directions. It was hard to believe that the madness that had happened this morning was already front page news- he was still feeling adrenalized from the whole experience, pacing around his house, up and down, in and out of rooms, until Mary had brought the paper home with her. John had tried to explain the incident to her as best as he could without making her feel as if she was in any danger, not mentioning that the people who done this were out to get to John to get to Sherlock. He merely skipped this step and implied that they were only after Sherlock, by any means.

'What are you going to do?' she had asked. John had ceased in his incessant walking for a moment.

'Sherlock has a plan, one that he's actually filled me in on for once. I think.'

'Is it good enough?'

'We have to hope so.'

He had kissed her and taken her hands in his.

'Everything will be fine, Mary,' he had squeezed her hands, looked her searchingly in the eye.

'You believe in Sherlock?'

He chuckled. 'I do.'

'Then I believe in him too.'

That had been two hours ago. John was now sat at his kitchen table, staring at the paper, Mary cooking and humming something just behind him. This was a usual occurrence for them when John wasn't working nights, but tonight was different. John was aware of his constant checking on her presence, just in case.

'Sherlock Holmes: How did he do it?' the headline ran in bold, black letters on greying white daring John to answer.

'_Eyewitnesses and CCTV footage can confirm that Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective, previously known to have jumped to his death three years ago following accusations of fraudulent conduct, appears to be alive and well. He was seen at an eminent supermarket chain in central London earlier this morning, along with his flatmate and assistant, Doctor John Watson. There is currently no information to suggest what reasons the pair were to be found at this location, as CCTV footage details what seems to be a food shopping trip until several minor charges, evidence of which was found by scene of crime officers, create a blast large enough to bring down several shelving units of wine upon them. Sources at this time are unable to confirm at whether police are searching for the pair in connection with causing the damage, which totals thousands of pounds for the shop in question._

_The question, instead, on everybody's lips is: how did he do it? Witnesses, including Doctor Watson himself, are recorded as having seen Holmes jump from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital in July 2011. A body was confirmed to be his and was given a funeral in the week following his supposed death. How, then, is this man, a wanted criminal, once again roaming the streets of London? Did he successfully fake his own death? Where has he been, what has he been doing?_

_Rumours put…'_

John stopped reading. He had almost memorised the article, he had read it so many times. At least the Standard offered slightly less gossip-mongering than some of the other abhorrent rags which had previously run stories on Sherlock and himself.

Elbows on the table, he dropped his head between his arms and gripped at the back of his thinning hair. Was this Sherlock's idea of hiding in plain sight? Would this make things easier for Moran? He sighed. He had had no word from Sherlock yet as to what to do next. He knew he couldn't continue on as normal and play along with the plan Sherlock had earlier set out, not with his face all over the papers and the Internet. His blog, untouched for so long, had received thousands of hits in the past few hours, people waiting expectantly and impatiently for answers. Harry had he even called him and he had answered her enquiries vaguely and nonchalantly. She had given up.

'Do you want penne or spaghetti with this?'

'Hmm.'

'John. Penne or spaghetti?'

'I don't mind. You choose. Spaghetti.'

He was checking his phone again. Still nothing.

Mary gasped behind him, dropping the spatula she had been holding. It clattered loudly on the hardwood floor. John was on his feet before it had stopped bouncing.

'He scared the life out of me,' Mary said, clutching at the base of her throat. 'Did you not teach him to use the front door?'

Sherlock was standing, ghost-like, at the patio door. In the black of the night, only his pallid face was visible, floating atop his camouflaged coat. John didn't reply to Mary's joking question- if Sherlock was creeping up at unexpected entrances then something was really wrong.

He returned the spatula to Mary's hand and shifted her aside gently to get to the door. They key clicked in the lock and he slid it open, glass sliding into glass, to let Sherlock in.

'There isn't much time,' he said instantly, not stepping in. John took that to mean that he knew about the paper and the blogs and Twitter. Of course he did, he was surgically attached to his phone.

'Okay.'

'Police or journalists, likely both, will soon be at your door, quite an inconvenience to my plans.'

'What do we do?'

'You're coming with me, John.'

'What about Mary?'

'There will be a car waiting outside the house in precisely five minutes. Mary will safely be escorted out of harm's way.'

'Mycroft?'

'He has his uses.'

'Do I not get a say in this?' Mary asked. John turned to see her as Sherlock paid her the first sign of attention of his visit. She looked mildly threatening with her spatula clenched upright in one hand, the other resting on her hip. The flowered apron rather detracted from this, however.

'Your pasta is boiling over,' Sherlock observed.

Keeping her eyes on them, Mary lifted the saucepan from the hob and turned the gas off.

'What about you and John? Where will you go if I'm the only one to be whisked off in this car?'

'We shall disappear.'

'And I can't know where?'

'Mary, at the moment, _I _don't know where,' John interjected.

'And you're okay with that?'

'I'm used to it. There's a difference.'

She lowered the spatula.

'I'm not sure I'm okay with it.'

John could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes. 'We haven't got time for this,' he drawled. 'John and I have to be moving on. You both have two minutes to gather anything you may need and then we really have to be going. The last time I got arrested John punched someone.'

'I'm sorry,' John told her, resisting the urge to glare at Sherlock as it wouldn't change anything, not right now. 'Come on, let's get you some things. Just be grateful he's scheduled in time for you to do that.'

Upstairs, Mary hastily threw items of clothing into a sports bag.

'What do I need? How long will I be gone?'

John was standing in front of his wardrobe, both doors open as if he was about to step into it. His eyes fell on the safe in the bottom corner. He bent down to it as he answered, his knees cracking.

'It shouldn't be too long, this is just a pre-caution really. Take the necessities and if you really need anything else, Mycroft can get it for you.'

'Sherlock's brother? I thought you hated him.'

John input the code. The metal box beeped and with a whir the bolt slid across. The door swung forward on its hinges. He glanced over his shoulder at Mary.

'Yes. I may not like him very much but I think he owes me and he is very capable of keeping you safe. He has learned his lessons about carelessness before.'

Mary was already zipping the bag up, pulling at it forcefully when it jammed on a flung out sleeve. She wrestled it for a few seconds before it conceded defeat and she could zip it all of the way around.

'Is that all you're taking?' she said.

John hadn't lifted the only item in the safe from it yet but Mary knew very well what he kept hidden there. He reached in and his fingers wrapped around the cool hilt of his revolver. He let out a breath as he withdrew it and felt its familiar weight in his hand. It was comforting.

He stood and put the gun down the back of his waistband as he had so many times before.

'How much trouble are you in, John?'

'Not as much as I will be if we make Sherlock late.'

He flicked his wrist and checked his watch.

'We'd better get going.'

He pulled her into a hug and kissed her soundly.

'I am so sorry,' he said, 'I never wanted to put you through any of this and if there was anything else I could do I-,'

'John,' she interrupted, 'it's _alright_. I know you. You're doing the right thing and whereas I'm not exactly pleased about all this… It is the right thing because that's just what you do.'

'I love you.'

'I love you too.'

He smiled and hugged her to him, running his fingers though her hair. He could feel her heartbeat at his front and the cold metal of his gun on his back. He kissed the top of her head.

'Thirty seconds!' Sherlock called up the stairs.

John released Mary and picked up her bag. She grabbed it off him.

'Let me take care of something,' she said.

She led the way down the landing and stairs. Sherlock was waiting at the foot of them and, if he was the type to tap his foot, John knew he would have been.

'Twenty five,' he said, before stepping forward and having the presence of mind to open the front door for Mary. John could hear the faint engine sounds of an expensive car rumbling down the street.

'It won't be for long,' he promised her.

'It had better not be.'

The car was now idling at the front of their house, a purring emblem of wealth in Mycroft's traditional black. The silver alloys glinted in the streetlights.

'Be careful,' she said, and then, to Sherlock, 'you make sure he's careful.'

Sherlock nodded and that was the best she was going to get out of him.

'Have fun with Mycroft,' John said as she walked down the drive, 'make sure he's sticking to his diet!'

As soon as she had climbed into the car, Sherlock pushed past John and slammed the front door shut. He held one of John's jumper out to him, which John hadn't realised he had been holding.

'I'm already wearing one,' he stated.

'Yes, I can see,' Sherlock smirked. 'I found this in your lounge. How long ago did you last wear it?'

'I don't know, two days ago?'

'Perfect. Rub it on you.'

'What?'

'You need to put as much of your scent as possible on that garment. That way, we can dump it somewhere to confuse any attempts to follow our scent.'

Feeling self-conscious, John took the item from Sherlock and brushed it against himself.

'Where are we going?' he questioned, the wool rough against his cheek.

'Out through your back door, across the gardens, through the shallow stream at the bottom of the fields and then along the train line. The expected route. We'll launch the scent decoys onto the top of a train- the next one is due in twelve minutes- and be off.'

'What about Moran? We're doing all of this to avoid the police and whoever else, but what about him?'

'He won't follow us where the police might be. We're safe from him for now.'

'Our aim is still to get rid of him?'

'Yes.'

'And after that? What about the police and the journalists?'

'The police we can deal with, the journalists I rather suspect we shall have to put up with for some time.'

'So you will be sticking around then?'

'Of course. I don't plan on being dead anymore, John, it is getting to be rather boring.'

The jumper hung limply by John's side. 'At least this is keeping you entertained for now.'

'The game, John!' he exclaimed with sudden impassioned energy. 'The game is still afoot and I intend to _win_.'

Sherlock's eyes were manic, alight with excitement. John felt his own grin spread across his face. Mary was safe, he thought, now is the time to be following Sherlock into danger, into his world where madness lies.

Sirens wailed in the distance, screeching closer and closer.

'It's time we were going, John.'

The howling was at the end of the street now, brief blasts of blue flashing through the windows. John gestured politely to the back of the house.

'After you.'


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Every time I sit down to write a chapter of this I realise that it's getting longer and longer! It's alright though, I'm having fun with it and I know where it's going, I just hope you guys like it too.

…*…

John was beginning to wish that he had never started a blog. He had- unintentionally, as he had never really expected anybody to read the thing- made his and Sherlock's names something of a phenomenon and, with help from the national press, their faces were now instantly recognisable. He supposed Sherlock had only lasted to so long over the past three years because the general public have notoriously short attention spans and, by John's best guesses, it looked as though Sherlock had been abroad. Now wasn't the time to be asking about that but he would get around to it one day.

One day when they weren't traipsing through abandoned railway tunnels, hopefully. Sticking to the sides, brick dust flaking away, leaving a titian powder mark along his sleeve, John followed his friend. He could just make out Sherlock's striking silhouette in front of him, lit by the pale blue dawn cresting at the end of the tunnel. They had been on the go all night and now that the initial adrenaline had passed, John was feeling exhausted. His sleep-deprived brain was trying its best to keep alert, wary of being found at any moment, but his thoughts kept drifting to the image of a bed, layered high with duvets and pillows, soft and warm.

It was a nice thought and nothing more. Once he had pushed through this fug of tiredness he would be raring to go again. He had abstained from sleep for longer than this before- it had just been a while since he had had to.

Sherlock came to a stop in front of him, leaning into the wall. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, face brightened by the glow of the screen. The phone clicked artificially as he scrolled through it. He chuckled, a low rumble at the back of his throat, and returned the phone to its resting place.

'Twitter is serving to confuse things,' he informed John. 'Apparently there have been several sightings of us in Kent and even one or two in South Wales.'

John rested against the wall. His breath rose in tumbling white spirals and faded out above their heads. 'Any news of anywhere near where we actually are?'

'None that I can see.'

'And where exactly are we?'

'Somewhere between Regent's Park and Primrose Hill.'

'Oh.' John was somewhat disappointed. 'We haven't gone as far as I thought.'

'No, I have led us on a loop. Having worked with Scotland Yard for a number of years I know how easily they are outwitted.'

John brushed his hand against the brickwork and more of it crumbled away. He watched it fall to the floor.

'In the end, Lestrade was the only decent one of the lot,' he said.

Sherlock did not say anything.

'Donovan and Anderson and some of the others,' he continued, 'I've seen them since. I haven't made any peace with them. They all told me they were sorry for what happened but it was so obvious they didn't mean it. _So obvious_. They were lying to my face, not sorry at all.'

'That's the problem with observing social niceties,' Sherlock mused, 'nobody ever really means the ones that matter. It's easy to say what you are supposed to say, that's all just learned behaviour.'

'I think I'm just used to your bluntness. It might sting a bit and you should probably reel it in a bit on strangers but at least we all know your opinion of us.'

John let his head thunk against the wall. He closed his eyes.

'They think they were right,' he said, 'they think you were a fake, a criminal. They've never doubted their own misguided deduction.'

'Idiots, John,' Sherlock started, and John let his eyelids open again, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes. 'Idiots are idiots are idiots.'

John laughed.

'It is going to be easy to prove them wrong,' Sherlock continued, 'and if they had really done enough of their own homework they would have realised themselves. Yes, Richard Brook existed in the records but he didn't exist in _people_. He was perhaps known by a select few in London, casting agents, people he had worked with, one or two others, all playing into Moriarty's hands. If you go back further though, to the school he claimed to have attended or the University he apparently has a degree from- no one there would have a recollection of him. And what are the chances of no one, in an entire lifetime, remembering you? Not even an old school friend, or neighbour, or even the drama teacher who apparently inspired you to become an actor?'

'I'd say about zero.'

'With everything taken into account, I'd make it _exactly _zero. People are the real records in life, John, their hearts and minds, all of you remembering the funny little things the others do and missing the more important things.'

'Like one hundred and forty types of tobacco ash?' John raised his eyebrows.

'One hundred and forty _three_.'

'And it was that one hundred and forty third one that won you the Nobel Prize, wasn't it?'

Sherlock pursed his lips and exhaled in annoyance. 'Do not belittle my work, John.'

'Ha!' was all John could muster as a reaction. 'Hark who's talking!'

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and fished it out.

_Secure line. Mary safe. MH._

John quickly typed a reply, Sherlock back on his own phone at his side.

_Thanks. JW._

He was about to put his phone back when it vibrated again.

_Make sure he doesn't do anything drastic. MH._

John stared at the message. He considered sending a response, something along the lines of 'Well, he has already faked his own death, what's more drastic than that?', but thought better of it. He slipped his phone back into his right hand pocket. On his left, he could feel the ring box still nestled in the lining of his jacket. It had made quite a home for itself there in the few weeks John had been carrying it around, building himself up to asking the question, wanting to get it just right.

The sun had almost fully risen at the end of the tunnel. John stifled a yawn and pushed himself upright. He rolled his shoulders in preparation to be moving on.

'Where next?' he asked. 'What next?'

'We are waiting.'

'Waiting? For them to come and find us? We should probably keep moving.'

'No. We are waiting for information.'

John sensed that he wouldn't be getting anything further out of the other man.

'Fine.'

He adjusted the zip of his jacket, pulling it up to under his chin and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Early summer mornings in disused and damp railway tunnels were cold. The glass cut on his ear stung in the chill air; he had already noticed that Sherlock appeared to have escaped the fallout from their supermarket escapade unscathed. He picked at the curled edges of the bandage he had wrapped neatly around the slice on his hand. It could have been worse, he supposed.

A few silent minutes had gone by when a figure appeared at the end of the tunnel. John was instantly on guard, hand surreptitiously sneaking towards his gun. Sherlock, on the other hand, was ready to greet the other person.

'Stay back, John,' Sherlock muttered. 'Stand in the darkness. Don't move.'

John didn't argue and fell back into the shadows. As he walked closer, John saw that it was a man, scruffy and bedraggled, clothed in worn and ragged patches of old garments. His beard was thick and his dark eyes were hard and impenetrable. One of Sherlock's homeless network.

Sherlock stepped forward as the man drew closer, only a few metres away.

'Good mornin', Mr 'olmes,' the man said, voice rough and clearly Cockney.

'Good morning,' Sherlock responded politely, and then, more directly, 'Where is Toby?'

'Toby couldn' make it so he sen' me. I've often wan'ed to be in your ne'work, Mr 'olmes.'

Sherlock appraised the man.

'My _homeless _network?'

'Yes.'

'Really? Fascinating. You have gone to some effort, yes, you've managed to pull together a few dusty old scraps of clothes, you've even grown a beard and the mud is a nice touch, so stereotypically authentic. You've failed on so many other counts though. Yes, you have a beard, but it is far too neat. Your hair was evidently washed only yesterday, an anti-dandruff formula going by the faintly chemical scent. Your skin is too prim and scrubbed to have weathered any outdoor living and those shoes, although beaten, have not been worn in long. _You _are not a homeless man and you have already made the mistake of implying you have been so for some time.'

'I don' know wha' you mean.'

'I'll ask again. _Where _is Toby?'

For a long second, no one moved or spoke. Sherlock's face was like steel, glinting sharply in the dim morning light. The man opposite tensed, holding Sherlock's gaze. He shuffled on his feet, one, two. He took a step backwards. His hand plunged into the folds of his beaten coat and John knew exactly what he was doing.

Sherlock was on him in an instant, launching himself forward, knocking the man to the ground, landing heavily on him. They were both winded by this action, Sherlock less so. He grasped the lapels of the man's coat and drew him up, clenching his fists tightly in bunches of the material, his face close to that of the impostor.

'Do you work for Moran?'

The man's face was reddening as the blood built up. His eyes were bulbous from the force of Sherlock's knees in his ribs.

'With,' he spat. His accent had changed, schooled into one of someone privately educated. 'With Moran to get rid of you, Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock shook him. His head hit the floor painfully and he winced but remained conscious.

'You will tell me where to find him.'

'_No_.'

In a surprisingly athletic move, the man forced up against Sherlock with both legs, managing to throw him off, send him rolling. He was on his feet quicker than Sherlock could be, going once again for the gun he had stowed away under his disguise.

Sherlock was about to tackle the man again, the gun now fully revealed, gun metal grinning in the darkness, when John stepped forward from behind the man. Sherlock could see him but the man couldn't.

The stranger tilted his arm sideways and cocked the gun with a practiced hand. He set it on a straight and steady course, aim playing over the target of Sherlock's heart. There were not going to be any final words, no smug comments. This man was a true, professional assassin.

His finger went for the trigger. John took the one step needed to put him close enough to the man.

He pistol whipped him across the side of the skull.

With a crunch, the man collapsed to the ground, limp and un-coordinated.

'I didn't want to have to _actually_ shoot him,' John said by way of explanation as he tucked his gun back into his waistband. He looked down at the man. A slow trickle of blood dripped across his temple.

'He made the mistake of underestimating you, John.'

'He didn't even ask where I was.'

'These killing types can be quite self-centred.'

Sherlock bent down and turned the man over. His eyes were shut but his mouth was open. He crouched by his feet and examined the soles of his shoes.

'These shoes may be too new to tell us anything but this man has no doubt been where Moran is,' he said. He lifted the foot up to meet his eyeline, then rummaged around for his torch. 'This sediment here is local, he hasn't been far from this area. The freshest layer shows where he followed us here-,'

'I'm guessing Toby was threatened?'

'Or bribed. I should have used someone more reliable but Toby was the most local.'

John nodded. He lowered himself to his knees next to the unconscious figure and settled on checking for more obvious clues in his many pockets.

'There's loose tarmac trapped in here too, dry and grey, so not a road that has been put down recently. The quantity of small granules suggests that it's from a road he has used often, one that lies above a Tube station or line, the trains loosening the surface over time. Laces are wet, it hasn't rained recently, so likely a street with a drainage problem, he stepped in a puddle when crossing it.'

'This is London, that doesn't narrow it down much.'

The first pocket yielded a ticket for the Hammersmith and City line and twenty-two pence.

Sherlock shifted position, examining the man's fingers.

'Short, cracked fingernails, burnt yellow staining on the fingertips and nail beds- a smoker.' He sniffed the fingers. 'Very particular brand.' He brushed his thumb along the front of the man's coat, a thin grey coat marring his skin. He licked it. 'Yes, number one hundred and twenty eight. A brand too expensive for most looking for a nicotine hit but stocked by certain corner shops in this area. He has been very local.'

John's hand hit upon something smooth in the man's pocket. It crumpled under his hands as he pulled it out. A serviette.

Sherlock was on his feet again. 'He has been staying local but his true accent tells us that he isn't from around here. He is here for a purpose.'

John unfolded it, revealing a smudge of a ketchup stain and some familiar red writing.

'Where exactly though?_Where?'_

'Uh, Sherlock…'

'Not now, John, I'm thinking, I can't think with you-,'

'No, Sherlock, look at this.'

Sherlock whirled on John, ready to activate what John called his 'high-and-mighty mode' when his eyes fell upon the lettering.

'Oh.'

'It's from Speedy's. No one goes there unless they're in that area already.'

He dropped the serviette onto the man's chest and stood up.

'Of course,' Sherlock sighed. 'I have been so stupid! Stupid!' He pounded his own forehead. John grabbed his wrist to stop him doing it again, returning it to Sherlock's side. 'It's so obvious that he should go there, the place was open, no one would notice. It's local, it's above the Underground.'

'Hammersmith and City,' John stated, remembering the ticket he had dismissed. 'And the drains along the opposite side of the road to us never worked properly. Still not fixed.'

Sherlock was clutching at his hair.

'They're at Baker Street,' John said. He could hear the prickly annoyance in his own tone. 'All of this, and he has been at bloody Baker Street!'

Sherlock released his curls. 'We had better be going then. It's not far to go to Baker Street- to two-two-_zero_ B Baker Street.'


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: It's been a ridiculously long time since I updated this, therefore, I apologise to anybody who was following it! My life has been hectic and this is the first chance I've had to sit down and properly sort myself out past the plot hole I thought I'd dug myself into. I hope people still like this and that I can get the next chapter up sometime sooner than the gap between the last one!

…*…

When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock sent John ahead of him. He stood back, framed between the faded graffiti wings on the wall behind him, the red 'I.O.U' hidden by his body. John had wanted to be surprised at the lack of police supervision on this street, a spot he would have considered worthy of monitoring as they were in pursuit of he and Sherlock, but apparently the notion had been dismissed. Or perhaps they were not considered as much as a threat as John thought. He knew Sherlock's disdain for the forces of Scotland Yard and today, as he walked the familiar pavement unmonitored, he found himself in agreement.

Rain continued to fall, heavier now than the previous drizzle. Speedy's was just opening up for the day, John could see Mr Chatterjee shuffling about inside, looking disgruntled as ever. Things had been strained between the he and the residents of 221B ever since Mrs Hudson had rightfully thrown him over.

John hoped he didn't look up and recognise him. He appeared, through the window, to be too pre-occupied with the seating arrangements, even though they were always the same. John's eyes slid over to the gold numbering of 221B, feeling a dull ache as the sun glinted off the B. He resolutely turned his head to face the houses on the side he was walking along, feet finding their way to 220B.

He took the steps two at a time. He stood on the top step and attempted to look in, but the windows were dark and somewhat dusty. The place looked empty, looked like it had been so for some time. John pushed the door, not expecting it to yield. It opened a crack with a creak and, pushing more firmly now, John tilted it all of the way open. He leant his back into the hinges and glanced about the hallway.

Deserted. Some faint footprints in the dust led towards the stairs.

John took a breath and walked in. His footsteps echoed in the stale silence; the house was eerie in its stillness. The rain pelted heavily on the loose roof tiles overhead. John saw water trickle down the corner of the wall near the door, building up a layer of green slime where this process had gone on for long before. The wallpaper, a horrible brown throwback to the seventies, was peeling. A door led off to the right. The place was like a parallel and derelict 221.

He brushed his wet hair off his forehead, wiping it with the back of his sleeve, and physically flinched when somewhere appeared behind him and the door slammed shut.

'Jesus, Sherlock!'

'You let your guard down,' Sherlock replied.

'That's not an invitation to scare the crap out of me. You sent me out first as bait, remember? You could've been anyone.'

Sherlock's shoulders twitched minutely; his interpretation of a shrug. 'Someone left that door unlocked.'

'That was nice of them.'

'It confirms what I have already figured out.'

'I didn't realise how long this place had been empty,' John said.

'It has been more often uninhabited than inhabited.'

John ran his hands through his hair again, the damp dragging it consistently back down onto his face. He titled his head in the direction of the stairs. Sherlock shook his head. He swept his hand along the banister and examined the dust that came away on his palm.

'This isn't quite right,' he said.

'It is very quiet.'

'There's still something missing in this.'

Sherlock rubbed his hands together to wipe the dust away. The rain dripped in the corner.

'We will have to go upstairs.'

John nodded his agreement and led the way. The stairs felt rotten underfoot, like they were unable to take their weight as each plank sagged and warped to match the imprints of the shoes. John had his gun out and in front of him now, held in both hands, pointed down. Sherlock managed the stairs with considerably less noise than John.

Upstairs was equally empty of human presence but appeared to have been in full use more recently than the overlooked reception area. Blankets lay in a heap on a battered armchair, an open suitcase leaked clothes onto the floor- which looked as though someone had attempted to scrub it but largely failed- and a laptop blinked blue lights on the scratched tabletop, its internal fan humming softly.

What stuck out most, however, was the slender black device set up near the window, a solid looking tripod housing a long sniper, complete with amber-orbed scopes, waiting patiently for its master to return.

'Where is he then?' John asked. 'Where's Moran?'

Sherlock hadn't heard him. John could see that he wasn't listening, that he was looking out straight past the assembled weapon, through the window and across the street to 221B. John followed his line of sight but couldn't see anything that far away, not through the rain, at least. Sherlock stumbled sideways and pushed John with him as he went.

'He was just testing me,' he said, hands still clutching John's sleeves. 'And I passed the test, which in turn means that I failed.'

'What are you on about, Sherlock? What can you see?'

John looked up searchingly into the taller man's face. Sherlock continued to stare out of the window and beyond.

'I've fallen at the last hurdle, John, don't you see?'

'No, Sherlock, no, I don't, otherwise I wouldn't be asking you.'

Sherlock relinquished his grasp.

'Don't move,' he instructed.

'What? Sherlock-,'

'No, John, don't move. Do not step into the line of the window.'

'Why not? The gun is over here, it's… No. He's over _there_? In _our _flat?'

'Mrs Hudson is away at her sister's. That bathroom window always was too easy to break into. I've done it myself.'

John crunched his teeth together. Sherlock stepped around him.

'I don't like this, Sherlock, I really don't.'

Sherlock folded his arms against his chest. He bent one elbow upwards so that he could drum his fingers against his chin. John shifted from one foot to the other and then back again. Rainwater dribbled into the shell of his ear.

'I need you to stay here,' Sherlock said eventually.

'Here?'

'Yes. Next to the window but not in it. Don't get too close. Be ready.'

He didn't need to ask ready for what.

'Can I use that?' he gestured at the sniper.

'Can you?'

'It's been a while but if it comes down to it…'

'Only if it comes down to it, John.'

'I can see what you're planning on doing, Sherlock, and I'm quite sure that it's going to come down to it.'

'Don't let your heart rule your head.'

'Don't let your head rule your heart,' John shot back, in an instant. He knocked past Sherlock, none too gently, and came to stop against the wall adjacent to the window. He let his fingertips caress the weapon.

'I imagine this would have been Toby's impersonator's position,' Sherlock said as John let his hand fall back, 'which rather implies that Moran may not be the only one out there.'

His back still to Sherlock, John said, 'You don't have to do this. You don't have to go out there.'

'I don't have a choice.'

'You do.'

'Who else am I going to call, John? I can hardly go running to the police and I refuse to, I _refuse_, to go to Mycroft. This is my case and I will see it through to the end.'

'To what end, Sherlock?' John shouted. He whipped around, fast and furious. 'Don't do this again! You're so bloody stubborn and you never let anyone help, not really, you just let some of us look on and admire you showing off. I've moved on from that, Sherlock! I have, I have and _I _refuse to see you do this. If you go out there, you might actually die. You might really be dead, gone. No more tricks. No more high-functioning sociopath.'

If John didn't know Sherlock better, he could almost suppose that Sherlock looked scared. His own fists were clenched at his sides. He brought one up to wipe the spittle from his chin.

'Stay there, John. You know what to do.'

'_Don't_.'

'I have to.'

'No.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I'm not sure you mean that,' John spat.

'Then I'm sorry for that too.'

Sherlock did not wait for a further response. He twisted elegantly on his heels and hurried back down the stairs. John may be angry at him- livid, even- for what he judged to be a dangerous act on Sherlock's part, but Sherlock knew that he could trust him. He wouldn't be about to do what he was without that.

Outside, the rain continued to pour from the clouds with watery vengeance. Sherlock was soaked through within a matter of seconds. No one was walking down the street and no cars swept past in a blur of windscreen wipers and dimmed headlights.

Sherlock walked out onto the street, only managing a few steps before he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He knew who it would be.

As he looked down to pull the vibrating device from within his coat, he saw a perfectly round red dot hovering over his heart. He clicked the screen to answer the call and ignored the deathly gleeful circle as he brought the phone up to his ear.

'You found me then,' a man's voice said. 'Took you long enough.'

'I had my suspicions.'

'But I was cleverer than you thought.'

'I will admit to being surprised, yes. I misjudged you. I thought Moriarty had led you in your criminal deviances more than perhaps he did.'

'Boo-hoo for you.'

It was a childish statement, but it whispered through the phone with a venom clearly deliciously enjoyed by the speaker.

'You want me dead,' Sherlock said. The rain pricked at his face like tiny splinters of ice.

'No, no, no. Others do. There's quite a bounty on your head from the damage you've done to certain… illicit communities. I couldn't care less whether you lived. I want the money.'

'Money? Of course, your gambling debts are escaping you, Moran.'

Moran hissed. 'I'll be able to play as much as I want with you gone.'

'Have you not chosen a bit of an obvious location for a murder? Middle of the day, central London?'

'Makes no difference to me, Holmes. I can shoot you, be packed off and disappeared in five minutes. I'd be more worried for your friend Doctor Watson over there, his hands all over a fully-primed sniper.'

'You're going to shoot me and leave John set up for my murder?'

Sherlock could see a figure at the window of 221B again. His outline was fuzzy through the rain-streaked pane but he could see well enough that a hand was held up to the side of the head. Moran on his phone.

'Yes. I quite like the idea. I'm pretty pleased with myself.'

'What about the exit wound?'

'Bodies don't have to fall down straight, Holmes , you of all people should know that.'

'What-,'

'You're clutching at straws and there's nothing you can do.'

'I-,'

'I'm not much of a talker, Holmes, and I'm done now. Goodbye.'

The arm in the window lowered. Sherlock's phone beeped as the call was disconnected. He went to turn, to have his back to 221B, to say 'John'- but a bang resounded overhead.

A gunshot, followed by two more, cracking through the morning air and tearing a hole in the sky and his skin. White hot pain shot through Sherlock like nothing he had felt before, burning maliciously with teeth made of tiny staggering daggers. He fell back and looked down, feeling himself struggling through a sluggish slow motion, legs out of co-ordination with arms, head racing ahead of all of them, .

Something sharp dug into his chest, _through _his chest. Blood in thick scarlet quantities lapped eagerly at the thin cotton of his shirt, brimming through and spilling out onto his coat.

His knees caved. He buckled down onto the cold, wet road of Baker Street. His blood mingled with the decaying puddles as the Tube rumbled past underneath.


	8. Chapter 8

It had been a long day and night for Mycroft Holmes. He sat in front of the dying amber embers of his fire and massaged his temples, delicate fingers rotating skin in slow, smooth circles. His eyes glazed over as he stared into the white-edged coals, a pinpoint of pressure building up just behind the bridge of his nose.

He had been having a troublesome enough day as it was, what with the Prime Minister throwing a bit of a hissy fit over Mycroft's suggestions for foreign policy and the entire Home Office in uproar over a potential scandal that the press had become aware of. Their best spin doctors had been rushed off their feet, thesaurus-like brains powering motor mouths with fix-it suggestions. It had not been going well at all.

And then Sherlock had got his face plastered all over the evening news. Mycroft had known that Sherlock was alive ever since his very private grief had been interrupted by what could have been a credit card fraud. That would have been easier to deal with. Unluckily for Mycroft, however, it had instead been his younger brother gallivanting off around the globe, gleefully spending Mycroft's money on the oddest of things in the most eclectic of locations. It had allowed him to keep tabs on Sherlock at least. He was aware that Sherlock had returned to the United Kingdom, to London and- after a few days in which Mycroft failed to tail him fully- to John Watson.

Mycroft sighed and dropped his hands from his temples. He wasn't as young as he used to be and he wondered whether he still had the energy to be doing this. He drummed his fingers along the supple leather arm of his seat. Curved imprints where he had performed this action many times before dented the furniture.

The door behind him opened and- going by the measured high-heeled steps and the musky, professional perfume- Mycroft knew it to be his assistant; Anthea as she continued to go by. She crossed the room and drew back the velvet curtains, allowing the morning light to peek in weakly through the stained glass.

'Good morning, sir,' she said briskly, appearing in front of him.

'Is it?' he replied. 'Yeees. Good morning.'

'Mary Morstan is in the central dining room, the cook is just making her some breakfast. Can I bring you anything?'

'No, thank you, Anthea. I think I might just join Ms Morstan at the table. Tell Williams that a few simple slices of toast and a glass of orange juice will suffice for me this morning.'

She nodded curtly and left the room. Mycroft took another few minutes to compose himself, supposing that he looked something of an overtired state. He straightened his collar and waistcoat buttons, checked his phone- nothing- and headed over to the dining room.

Mary sat to the right of the head of the table, lifting small spoonfuls of Corn Flakes up to her mouth. The slight matting of the back of her hair suggested that she had lain down on the duck down, four-poster bed Mycroft had supplied, but her wrinkled clothes, those from the day before, also told him that she hadn't changed. The inky crescents below her eyes showed that, much like Mycroft, she hadn't slept.

'Good morning, Ms Morstan,' Mycroft greeted as he walked along the left side of the table to join her at the end.

'Morning.'

'I trust you were comfortable here?'

'Yes. Very. Thank you.'

Mycroft pulled the seat out and sat down. 'And yet you still were unable to sleep.'

'I think I napped for half an hour here and there. Not enough to complete a full REM cycle or anything.'

She took a sip of her juice- apple, squeezed from the ripe orchards that lay out at the back of the grounds.

'If it is any consolation,' he started, 'it has not been long since I informed John of your safety. That he was able to reply allows us to deduce that he is not yet in too much trouble.'

'Yet?'

'I'm afraid that's rather how these things go when you throw your hat in with my younger brother. Would you like some coffee?'

Mary nodded and offered Mycroft the mug which sat beside her bowl. He poured the hot black liquid, careful not to spill a drop.

'Milk?'

'I'll take it full strength today.'

She held the mug between both hands and blew at the surface. Steam scurried away.

'You haven't heard anything then?' she asked.

At that moment, Anthea arrived with a rack of toast and a small pot of margarine. She silently set it down and left the room again, knowing she was not needed.

'I have taken some measures to divert the path of any members of the police force who may have come close to being in the right place at the right time. I have not, however, managed to track Sherlock and John. Take this as a good sign.'

Mycroft reached out and snatched up a slice of toast from the rack. He smeared a little amount of margarine onto the butter knife and scraped it across the perfectly crisp and golden bread, nowhere near as much as he would once have lathered the food in. And that would have been with full-fat butter. He bit into it and the world seemed to be at right with itself once again, if only for a few short seconds.

Mary set her mug down.

'John doesn't like you much,' she said.

He finished chewing. 'I suppose that he has a right not to.'

'Why? I mean, you seem a bit pompous and you live in what appears to have once been a castle, but you don't seem to be a bad man.'

'John and I used to… have an understanding. We were acquainted politely and went about our own lives, only meeting on occasion to discuss or deal with Sherlock. He liked me as much as he needed to.'

'What changed?'

'There was an incident. A rather significant incident. If you wouldn't mind, I would rather not go into it.'

Nothing was said for a few minutes. Mary finished her cereal and added a little brown sugar to her coffee to take the bitter edge off.

'Was it something to do with Sherlock's… death?'

Mycroft selected another piece of toast.

'Something and everything.'

'That doesn't tell me anything. Except, maybe, that under that cold, Holmes exterior that I have heard so much about… You still feel guilty.'

Ah, she really was quite shrewd, this psychologist of John's. His cheeks seemed to ache as he gave her a sad smile.

'It is quite unnecessary and defies rational thinking given that Sherlock continues to live and breathe and cause trouble for the rest of us, but yes, I suppose that I do. Somewhere under here.'

'You probably always will. You can't change what happened, the actual action, no matter how the consequences eventually turned out. It could all have been so much worse.'

'Yes. I suppose that you're right.'

He moved onto a third piece of toast. She drank her coffee. The clock in the outer hall chimed seven times to signal the early hour and a light rain pattered against the window panes.

The clock had just struck its seventh bell when Anthea returned.

'We've caught up with your brother and Doctor Watson, sir,' she informed him. 'They have made their way to Baker Street.'

'Baker Street?'

'We have not been monitoring it as closely as we have previously done in the last few months, sir. There may be something there that we have missed.'

'It could be nothing, just some silly ploy of Sherlock's.'

'We shall continue to track them.'

'Yes,' he dabbed at his lips with a serviette and left it folded on the table as he stood up. He looked to Mary. 'Do excuse me, I should probably go and keep an eye on the situation.'

'Can I join you? Is there anything I can do?'

'Continue to enjoy your breakfast, perhaps take a stroll about the grounds. Do not worry, Ms Morstan. I will keep you informed.'

He did not wait for her response but led Anthea from the room, along several hallways adorned with gilt-framed oil paintings and hanging tapestries, to a separate wing and into a room which looked thoroughly out of place in comparison to the rest of the house.

Computer monitors wrapped about the three walls opposite and adjacent to the door. Some buzzed with constant streams of data, green on black like the first home computers, others presented greyscale CCTV images. Two people- a man and a woman- sat before a bank of controls, translucent wire wound about their ears and disappearing down at the napes of their necks.

'They've gone into 220B,' the man supplied. 'We caught sight of Watson first, then your brother on the corner. It wasn't long until he followed Watson after he entered the premises,' the man glanced over the high back of the chair at Mycroft, 'the door was left open.'

'That is far too deliberate for my liking,' Mycroft said. He leant on the top of the woman's chair. She twisted a dial on the bank before her and one of the screens zoomed in on the exterior of 220B. The door was now closed. 'How long have they been in there?'

'Only a few minutes,' the woman answered. 'We've checked back on the CCTV data rolls and no one has entered the house in days apart from one Caucasian male, unidentified due to the grainy camera quality and this rain. He left at around half past five this morning and hasn't been seen to return since.'

'Interesting. Perhaps he sent Sherlock there.'

On screen, the door to 220B was swinging back. Sherlock stepped out, alone. He strode with purpose out into the street. Mycroft bent closer to the image.

'It looks as though he's going to 221B, sir,' the man said.

'Yes,' Mycroft agreed. The black and white Sherlock stopped. He was staring at his old flat, head tilted just so, looking up at the window. 'Show me the upper window of 221B.'

The woman flicked the dial again and clicked a few keys.

'That's the best that camera can do, sir.'

Mycroft strained his eyes to see but the picture was too blurry and undefined. He thought he saw movement at the window. He slapped his hand against the top of the chair.

'We should have updated years ago.'

'There is some sound access.'

'Pull it up, pull it up!'

Sherlock had come to a sudden halt. His hand went inside his coat and for a moment Mycroft thought he would withdraw a gun, but no, it was his mobile. A fuzz of white noise assaulted Mycroft's ears as the speakers connected. The woman adjusted the quality. Sherlock's mouth was moving but they couldn't make out what he was saying, not over the rain and wind and street noise.

'What is he doing?' Mycroft murmured. 'Can you-,'

Sherlock had turned on screen, a swift movement on his heels. The camera was of a decent enough standard to pick up the resonating bang that echoed across the street. Sherlock was falling and two more loud cracks were chasing the other through the speakers.

'That was a gunshot, sir,' the man said, 'definitely a gunshot.'

'I can see that, Jenkins!'

Mycroft ran his hands over his face, scrubbing at his cheeks. Both the upper window of 220B and 221B appeared to be splintering and dropping out onto the ground, equidistant from where his brother now lay, a dark patch just visible between his body and the tarmac.

'Divert any police cells headed towards Baker Street, we'll send our own men in. Get the nearest and best paramedics we have to the scene. Anthea-,' he called to his assistant, who had obediently been standing in the corner of the room, face lit by her Blackberry, 'bring my car around, I want to be there too. As soon as possible.'

Nobody seemed to be doing anything.

'Do it _now_, there's no time to waste.'

Anthea slipped out of the room. Jenkins and the woman were a flurry of hands across keyboards, Jenkins with his hand to his ear piece, barking instructions.

Mycroft left the room. The door shut behind him with a neat snick. He fell back against it for a minute, maybe two and then-

'Your car is ready, sir.'

…*…

A/N: I had a request for Mycroft from a friend and, as I'm feeling a bit mean, I've abused my power as author and decided to drag the cliff hanger out a bit, just to tease you. Will be resolved in the next chapter… or will it?


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